


how long

by celestialpink (cities)



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 09:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cities/pseuds/celestialpink
Summary: Aug 2010 – April 2011I went off to college and we grew pretty distant again.- S





	how long

**Author's Note:**

> um this is kinda shitty and the ending is extra shitty but oh well  
> unedited, so point out any mistakes you see!! :D
> 
> inspired by how long by jelly rocket

Nights like these were getting more and more frequent.

Scott was once again hunched over in his bed, freshly woken up and shivering. His breaths came out short and shaky, tears lining the edges of his eyes. His shaking hands were clutching the comforter tightly, the material cool and silky against his shaky fingers and pooling around his stomach.

Nights like these were getting too familiar for his liking.

And they needed to stop happening. It had been more than half a year, for fuck’s sake. He needed to stop thinking about Mitch. He needed to stop letting his mind wander to the boy who had taken his heart so willingly when he offered it only to toss it back at him a couple of weeks later. He needed to stop letting the first boy he kissed, the first person he trusted enough to come out to, the first boyfriend he had to continue haunting his mind, even when he’s fucking asleep. He needed to let go of his boyfr- _ex_ -boyfriend.

Scott took a moment to recollect his breathing before bringing the palm of his hand to his eyes and wiped at the beads of tears collecting there. It was funny, really, how easily he cried when he got emotional. Cuts and bruises and wounds almost never brought tears to his eyes. He never minded the horrible burning sensation of physical pain very much, only wishing the discomfort would go away and leave him alone. He was brought up in Texas, after all. Men who cried were wimps. Funny how his brain decided that the (untrue) message burned into him from childhood never applied to emotional situations. He had always been the emotional one in his group of friends since young, almost never letting his feelings to him, but when they rarely did, he could never stop the sniffles and tissues that came soon after. Scott hated it when he cried in front of his friends- it showed a more vulnerable, more untouched side of him that he would rather hide. But alone in his room, at some hour deep into the night? He hated it even more. It just meant how much of a pull Mitch had on him, how the beautiful brunette could affect him so tremendously without even trying. He was, to put it simply, heads over heels in love with him. But they weren’t even together anymore, and the short period when they had been was of no significance to Mitch.

Scott scooted back until his back rested comfortably against his pillow and let his body slump into the softness of it, weariness pulling at his very being from so many sleepless nights. And by the looks of it, he wasn’t going to be able to get much sleep today either. So he just sat there and stared at the wall at the foot of his bed, slightly chipped and grimy and faintly lit by the moonlight streaming in from the window.

The dream was the same as every other time. They were standing in the car park where they had made out numerous times and where Mitch had dumped him. Mitch looked exactly like he had on the day when he dumped Scott, except his eyes weren’t apologetic or sad. They were filled to the brim with scorching hot anger, the kind that he saw in Lauren’s eyes when he accidentally tore her favourite dress at the age of 10, the kind that he saw in his mother’s eyes when she found out that Scott had gotten into a fight and split open his lower lip at the age of 14. Scott didn’t know what he was doing there, standing in front of Mitch. All he knew in the dream was that he had done something really, really unforgivable, and he was trying to explain himself to his ex-boyfriend. God, he sounded so fucking pitiful and pathetic, his voice whiny and scratchy. And Mitch was hurling round after round of _I hate you_ s at Scott, his words loud and biting and ringing through Scott’s ears. Every single word was cutting through him, every syllable burning him alive from the inside out because no, no, Mitch, the most important boy in his life, Mitch, whom he loved with every fibre of his being, hated him. Despised him. Didn’t return any affection Scott felt for him.

Didn’t love him back.

The dream was always so vivid, so realistic, like every single second was painted by an artist’s hands. It was a reminder that he and Mitch were no longer on speaking terms, that the former lovers couldn’t even stand to talk to each other.

A reminder he didn’t like very much. A reminder he fucking _hated_.

Scott glanced at the clock sitting on his bedside table as he wrapped his comforter closer around himself. 3.28 am. He should get back to sleep. He had to get up at 7 am tomorrow for his morning shift- he couldn’t afford to start tomorrow sleepy and exhausted.

Yet as Scott laid down and closed his eyes, he couldn’t help but see the image of Mitch on that fateful night flash across his eyelids. Mitch had worn his forest green hoodie that day, the one that was too big for him and stopped halfway at his thighs. He had also worn his favourite pair of skinny jeans and those beaten-up sneakers that were long past their expiry date. Scott’s first thought had been that his boyfriend looked really good in that outfit. Then he saw the expression on Mitch’s face and realised that the outfit was of least importance then.

Mitch’s hair had been messy and fluffed out, like he had used to his fingers to style his hair instead of a comb. His eyes had been wild and unfocused, and he couldn’t seem to stop chewing his upper lip, the flesh slightly swollen and red. Then Mitch’s eyes met Scott’s, and they immediately filled with such tender sadness that Scott’s first instinct was to give Mitch a hug. Then he noticed that his boyfriend had stiffened when Scott hugged him, (which never happens, by the way,) and suddenly the whole situation seemed a lot grimmer than it had been before.

It had felt like such a stereotypical teenage breakup then, the whole scene rehearsed by other adolescents billions of times, yet Scott was sure none of them felt the heartbreak he had that day. His whole world, his entire being, his whole heart- they were all slowly falling apart, stripped to pieces and broken into fragments.

The pain still felt so fresh now, almost as if it had just happened. It still felt as if his heart was being forced into a cage, locked up and crushed to smithereens. It still hurt. A lot. A whole fucking lot.

He wanted to open his eyes at that moment, to scream, to cry, but he forced himself to keep them closed. He just needed to forget Mitch. He needed to control those images and force them out of his head, he had to. The sooner he learned how to stop seeing Mitch’s face when he didn’t want to, the faster he’d able to let go of the ghost Mitch had attached to him unknowingly.

This whole situation was getting worse and worse. Sure, he had been heartbroken and wistful before, but it was only after he came to USC when the longing became too much and manifested into venomous thoughts. It probably had something to do with the fact that Scott couldn’t even see Mitch’s face anymore, but it didn’t matter. All he needed to focus on right now was to get rid of… whatever this was.

He waited until the pain faded away to nothing but a mere ache, a constant wrench of his heart. He waited until his whole being felt burned out, until his mind accepted that Mitch just never loved him, and never will. He waited until the sensation of missing Mitch wasn’t taking over his body anymore.

Then Scott kicked the comforter away, got up from the bed and walked to his desk and sat down. He sighed and opened the drawer to his left, reaching in and retrieving his Moleskin notebook without looking, the familiar routine burned into his muscles. His mother had given it to him a day before he left for college, telling him that he could use it as an outlet when he felt out of sorts. After all, Scott would still need someone or something to vent to, and without his mother around the Moleskin was his second best choice.

Over the months, the condition of the Moleskin had worsened, the pages that had words on them slightly crumpled (Scott couldn’t help that he was an aggressive writer) and a few scratches on the beautiful cover. (Scott couldn’t help that he was a clumsy bitch either.)

He flipped the book until it opened to where the strip of ribbon was nestled. Scott knew that writing would help with the heartache a little, and the page was already mostly filled with messy scribbles and crossed out words from other sleepless nights.

And so Scott set to work. He expressed his emotions, his pain, the feeling of something missing through the means he knew best – songwriting. His hands were shaking as he pressed word after word out of himself, the sharp piercing of his heart flowing out in words and lines and chords. His mind felt as if it was caught in a hurricane, racing and messy. The image of Mitch was in the centre of it all, beautiful and ethereal and not his. He could feel tears pricking at the edge of his eyes again, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away. Scott’s mind was only focused on one thing at the moment, and it was to let everything inside him flow out before the tap closes and he’s thrown back into the cycle of pining again. He _needed_ to get everything out.

Hours passed.

Finally, when the sun was peeking from the horizon and Scott’s hand was shaking too much for him to write properly, he stopped and slumped back into his chair. He was so tired that his eyelids were closing of their own accord, and his mind felt as if it was stuffed with cotton.

Scott clumsily got out of his chair and stumbled back to bed. He blindly grabbed for his phone and sent a quick message to his boss calling in sick, before throwing himself down onto the crumped comforter.

All Scott felt was emptiness then. He had cried all his tears, exhausted all his emotions, and he just felt as if there was a gaping hole inside him consuming him whole. So he just laid there, staring at the ceiling, contemplating where in their relationship had they gone wrong. How did they end up here? What had Scott done wrong?

What did he do to deserve this?

A burst of anger lit up in his chest. Why was the world so fucking unfair? All those fairy tale princes and princesses got their happy endings - why couldn’t Scott? Why the fuck didn’t he get to choose who he fell in love with?

Scott was shaking slightly then. He entire being was burning with rage at Eros for his unfairness, at himself for being so fucking stupid to fall so deep in love when he was only 17. Scott didn’t know who to blame then – the world, Mitch, himself – so he blamed them all, and let his blood boil. Being angry was better than being a pitiful pile of sadness.

Tears welled up in his eyes again, but this time, Scott didn’t wipe them away. He got up from his bed and took fumbling steps to his desk. Scott opened the Moleskin until it flipped open to _that_ page. With a shaking hand, he tore the page away from the book, the wetness in his eyes blurring his vision and dripping onto the paper. Scott ripped that page into half, and half, and half again, until the pieces were too tiny to tear. He just stared at the mess he created for a while, a scream building up in his throat and his breaths heavy and sharp. Scott flipped to the next page, and tore it up too.

_Rip, rip, rip._

And so he tore and he tore and he tore and he tore until the book was in ruins, not a single page whole and untorn. By then, he was full-out crying. Scott burrowed his face in his hands, the anger slowly seeping out of him as his sobs grew louder and louder.

And he just cried.

For Mitch was the only one for him, but Scott wasn’t the one for Mitch.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3


End file.
